


Strange Bedfellows

by gloria_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Hypothermia, Sharing a Bed, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-30
Updated: 2010-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:10:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Parts of London suffer a blackout on one of the coldest nights of the year; Sherlock and John are worried about Lestrade. Well, John is, anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Bedfellows

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/profile)[**sherlockbbc**](http://sherlockbbc.livejournal.com/) Make Me a Monday prompt from [](http://notkerouac.livejournal.com/profile)[**notkerouac**](http://notkerouac.livejournal.com/): "The heating at 221b has broken again. John and Sherlock invade Lestrade's to get warm." Not beta'd or brit-picked.

Lestrade awoke (ever so slightly) to the movement of his body rolling forward as the weight of something (someone?) settled onto the bed next to him.

"Damn it, Sally! Can't you walk the merlot without hanging the washing all about?" he felt, rather than heard, himself grumble into the pillow.

Stifled giggling, then a "Shush!" harsh as a knife stroke cut through the dark beside him, coaxing him further from his slumber. His head felt over-large and the room still spun about (pleasantly, and not so much as to be nauseating) from the merlot (yes that part was true). There had been a bottle. Probably shouldn't have drunk the whole thing.

Alone.

Again.

Reading case files by candlelight until his eyes were blurry and he'd lost all faith in humanity but for the buzzing in his head which made the world's fetid misery tolerable for one more night.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

The Drury Lane murders - that was the one tonight that kept him reaching for the bottle. Nasty business and high profile with strict orders from above to keep it in-house, so he was on his own. Just him and the bottle to keep him warm. And he was warm, now. And sleep tugged at him ever so persistently.

Still.

Something didn't sit right.

The bed was warm…warmer than it had been. And it suddenly seemed a bit too…full? Something off about the giggling, too. It couldn't have been Sally - what would she have been doing in his flat, anyway? Besides, the voice behind it was a bit too…male?

He struggled to focus his bleary mind until the topsy-turvy room slowed and finally was still.

Breathing…not in time with his own.

Rustling bedclothes to his right…he hadn't moved.

A soft clearing of a throat to his left…

Right.

Shit.

Now!

He bolted up and jammed his hand under the pillow, seeking the tactical baton he couldn't sleep without. His hand grabbed only empty sheets. Panic gripped him by the chest then and squeezed until a sleepy, sonorous voice drifted through the dark.

"Calm yourself, Lestrade."

"Sherlock? What the hell?" Lestrade growled through gritted teeth.

"I told you this was a bad idea."

Lestrade whipped his head around to peer into the dark from whence John Watson's voice emanated. Bloody hell, him too?

"Nonsense! It was a perfectly sound idea. Still is. The only reasonable course of action, really," Sherlock countered.

Feeling completely at sea, Lestrade found himself reverting to his fallback strategy - barking orders. "Out! The both of you - now!"

No movement, only silence for a moment. Then, "The power is out," Sherlock stated in that way of his (with the "…you stupid git" being merely implied).

"Yes, Sherlock, I know - doesn't take your observational skills to figure that out. And that doesn't explain what the ruddy hell you lot are doing in my flat - in my bed - at," he glanced over at the dark face of the clock on the bedside table, "half-past arse in the morning!"

"Don't be so obtuse, Lestrade, if you can help it. It obviously has everything to do with it. Now lie down - you're giving us a draft."

Lestrade was loathe to comply, but now that the initial surge of adrenaline had ebbed he started to feel the piercing cold of the room. He shivered, hesitating, until his teeth began chat-chat-chattering in his head. He dropped back onto the pillow with a grunt, and pulled the sheets and coverlet up to his ears.

"Fine. But if you make me ask again, the two of you'll be keeping each other warm in a Belmarsh cell for breaking and entering, criminal trespass, molesting a police officer, and anything else I can think of. What the hell are you doing here?"

"We were worried about you," John said.

He wasn't expecting that. Though, to be honest, he didn't quite know what he expected the answer would be. Lestrade snorted, "Oh please! You really expect me to believe that? Sherlock is hardly the worrying type."

"John was worried. I was merely humoring him."

"Noooo," John countered with exaggerated patience. "It was your idea to check on him."

Lestrade considered this. It might be true - at least in part. But, while he could hardly claim to know the man well, he had been around Sherlock long enough to know he rarely revealed his true motives willingly.

"In his post-war flat, no heat, not even a fireplace, -10°C, all alone…" John continued.

"Right, how could you possibly know I'd be alone?" Lestrade huffed.

"Ha!" Sherlock's laugh rang out like a shot in the dark. Lestrade flinched, but found no answer. Friday night…on (or off) a case…of course he was alone. Standard procedure. I'll just have another glass, thank you.

"You know, Lestrade, alcohol can contribute to hypothermia," Sherlock said.

Bugger's a fucking mind reader, Lestrade thought.

"While it does increase peripheral blood flow to the extremities, causing a near-term feeling of warmth, it counter-acts the body's natural process of diverting blood flow to the vital organs - which is what increases one's probability of surviving freezing temperatures."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. Sherlock had entered his insufferable professor addressing a slow pupil mode, now. Fantastic.

"Honestly, Greg, you were lucky he did convince me to break in, er, check on you," John said. "You were passed out and cold, barely even covered up. There was only one thing to do, and that was bundle into bed with you. Because we care!" the last bit was sing song and he could tell John was taking the piss out of him now.

"Oh, Christ!" Lestrade groaned, but smiled a bit in spite of embarrassment. He was coming back to himself, and the warm was quite nice even if it was being produced by such an odd situation. That they must never speak of. Ever.

"You're welcome," Sherlock said. "And Lestrade, you may want to revisit the third picture of the crime scene. You'll find the pile of cigarette ash beside the pass door points to the theatre ticket taker."

Ah, alternative agenda revealed, then. He would have been itching to get a look at that case file. Lestrade couldn't muster the energy to be annoyed. Besides, he would have asked for Sherlock's help if his superiors hadn't tied his hands. Best not to let on, though.

Lestrade sighed heavily. "Fine, you tossers can stay. Just don't get grabby - either of you!"

He felt Sherlock shift indignantly beside him. "I beg your pardon, Lestrade, but despite what your odious little underlings seem to think of me…"

"Joke, Sherlock," John interrupted and chuckled softly. "Go to sleep, you prat."

"And I want that baton back under my pillow by morning," Lestrade murmured, before dropping off to sleep himself.

***


End file.
